Wounded Accordions
by thescripturientbookworm
Summary: Meggie's father, Mo, died in a car accident when she was ten years old, leaving her to unravel the mysteries of her abilities on her own. Tossed around from place to place, her only constant is her father's old books. She learns that she can make the words come to life- but her father's death had an unforeseen impact. The only characters she can read to life are the ones who died.


**Hello! Thank you for taking the time to read this, it means a lot. I was pretty nervous to start uploading things, I don't usually publish anything I write, but I'm trying to work on that, and I promise to share more of this story- and others- in the future, should people wish my stories to continue.**

 **A bit more of a summary for you guys, since I had so few words to work with before:**

 **Meggie's father died, and as a result, her abilities changed drastically. She can only read people out of books after they've died, and there is no exchange with the real world, because it's difficult to say what exactly is being exchanged. I'll explain why this is later in the story, but for now, no spoilers. One of her most cherished possessions is her father's copy of The Book Thief, which she's read so many times the characters feel like home to her. When she is in times of distress, she reads aloud from the book, never knowing who or what, if anything, will come to her. Usually she simply sits and talks with them, longing for company. However, death is a mysterious thing, and it (he?) crosses the boundaries between worlds. The people conjured with her voice can never stay for long.**

 **Note A: Please correct me if I get anything wrong language-wise, since I haven't studied German. I would love constructive criticism and even some suggestions- who do you think Meggie should talk to? Pointing out typos would be appreciated as well.**

 **Note B: I do not own the characters or ideas from The Book Thief or Inkheart. Those belong to their actual authors, both of whom I respect highly. I do not own any songs or quotes I put before my updates either.**

* * *

 _"I get weary, and sick of trying_

 _I'm tired of livin', but scared of dyin',_

 _But Ol' Man River, he just keeps rollin' along…"_

* * *

Meggie Folchart sat with her feet curled up under her, swinging gently back and forth on an outdoor swing. A thick, heavy book was open on her lap: The Book Thief. Her hair fell down over her face as her body curved in an expression of total concentration. Her lips were moving, sounding out each word as her fingers traced the ink across the page. The paper rustled in a soft wind.

"...she watched him stand and play the accordion. he stood and strapped it on in the alps of broken houses and played the accordion with kindness in his silver eyes..." she read. Her voice, though quiet, was powerful.

Suddenly a man was sitting casually on the swing beside her. He smelled of paint and cigarettes. She had never met him before, but he was as familiar to her as a father.

"Guten tag, kind," he said, half a smile on his face, a cigarette slouching from his lips, just the way she'd read it to be. _Good day, child._

"Hans Hubermann," she said, smiling a little. "I thought you might be the one I needed to talk to."

"I'm here, so I suppose I must be," said Hans, with a little surprise in his voice, looking around at the view. Meggie lived near the edge of a lake, and the early-morning sun was dancing on the water.

Meggie shut the book and sighed, biting her lip.

"I do this- I read about people- when I need to talk to someone. All I have are my books...maybe that's why they come to life for me. Because I don't

have anyone else."

Hans Hubermann shrugged, pulling out a match to light up his cigarette. Meggie would normally cough, her asthma choking the air out of her, but she knew that the smoke wasn't real. She caught the faint smell of it. It smelled like hard times and good people.

"Maybe. I don't understand it myself, to tell the truth," said Hans, shrugging and tucking the matchbook back into his coat. Meggie was watching his eyes. They really were silver. There was just no other way of describing them. He looked like a painting made of coffee stains, except for those eyes.

"I wondered if it would be you to come out," said Meggie. "I thought it might be Death, but then, I'm not sure I'd be able to talk to him much. For all I know he's in my world already. If he is I guess you could say I've met him."

"You've lost someone?" Asked Hans. Meggie nodded.

"My father. My mother died before I could remember."

Hans simply nodded, looking at her with a hint of sadness around the angles of his face.

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do to help you, child," he said. "I've always been a simple man. I don't know much."

Meggie smiled at him.

"Well I know why you were the one to come out of the book," she said. "You're a promise-keeper. You don't try to fix things with too many words. That's part of why Leisel loved you so much. It wasn't that you were always wise, or perfect, or always right. You were just always there."

Hans acted preoccupied with his cigarette, but his silver eyes were a little wet. He almost tried to smile, but it was too much of a lie to do so.

"Yes. Leisel. I understand the purpose of the book, of course, but I will always regret having to leave Leisel. When Death comes to call, you don't have much of a choice. No matter what story you come from."

Meggie nodded, her eyes echoing his sadness.

"I'm sorry," she told him. He shrugged.

"So ist das Leben-hart aber dafür gemein." _Such is life, hard but mean._

Meggie looked down at her watch. It was 6:30a.m.

"I don't think we have much time left. Will you…" she seemed hesitant. "Herr Hubermann, will you play your accordion for me?"

Hans laughed, a deep, real laugh.

"It would be my pleasure," he told her.

Reaching down behind the swing, he pulled up his accordion and let it breathe. He played like ink and he played like colors and he played like the storybooks Meggie used to be enraptured by as a child. He played with his ink-and-paper heart, and the girl next to him closed her eyes, taking in the music that sounded like a home that had never been hers. When she opened them again, he was fading.

"Can I see you again?" She asked, her voice small and weak like a child's.

He was already gone, but she could have sworn that she saw one of his silver eyes wink knowingly at her. A door slid open behind her.

"Time to come inside," said a voice less familiar, and yet more often heard, than Hans Hubermann's.

For a moment Meggie stayed where she was, gazing at the book in her lap, stroking the words on its cover. She picked it up and held it close to her heart like it was the most precious thing she owned.

"I'm coming!" She called, stepping back into a world that had never felt less real.

As Meggie was drifting off to sleep that night, she could only wonder. She wondered why the only people she had even been able to call out of the books were the ones who had died- the ones who couldn't stay. Her mind drifted to a quote from the Book Thief.

"Papa was a man with silver eyes not dead ones.

Papa was an accordion!

But his bellows were all empty.

Nothing went in and nothing came out."

She rolled over onto one side, barely seeing the rows of beds in front of her in the darkness.

His bellows were all empty.

Her mind drifted back...back to the car accident at 11:32p.m. six years earlier. On the side a highway in California. Her father, sprawled on the dash of the car, his bellows all empty. Her blank, wide eyes, staring uncomprehendingly out the window as a light shone through and someone opened the folded-up door to pull her out.

"Daddy!" She screamed, trying to claw her way out of their arms. "Mo! Mo!"

Now, in her memory, the sirens sounded like the swells of an orchestra. Her heart was pounding loudly, her mouth open wide, as if to sing. But her song was jarred. The note was rough. It tore her throat coming out.

There was a hole in her accordion, one she wasn't sure she could ever fix. All she could do was keep squeezing air in and out.


End file.
